Thorne was still reeling from Isadora's words when the doors at the far end of the reception hall swung open. The polished marble floor reflected the glow of floating aether lanterns as several figures entered, Aetherhold officials, dressed in their sky-blue uniforms with the crossed wand and sword crest. Their presence commanded immediate attention, and the murmurs in the room died down.

An official in a gold-trimmed cloak strode to the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across the gathered students. His deep-set eyes held a quiet authority, and when he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly through the chamber.

"All first-year initiates, you will now be escorted to your temporary lodgings. There, you will receive further instructions regarding orientation, academy regulations, and your first lessons. The House Selection will take place at sunrise, attendance is mandatory."

A ripple of curiosity moved through the crowd. House Selection?

Thorne glanced at Lucian, who gave a minute shrug. It was the first time either of them had heard mention of houses.

The official continued, his tone brooking no argument. "For now, you are to follow your assigned escorts. Any deviation will be noted. Do not waste this opportunity."

With that, several more officials stepped forward, dividing the first-year students into groups. The Caledris students remained together, but other groups began forming around them, gathering by the kingdom or region they hailed from.

Thorne followed in silence as they were led out of the reception hall. The corridors were vast, lined with high-arched ceilings and walls of enchanted stone, shifting subtly with residual magic. He was beginning to understand just how massive Aetherhold truly was.

They passed by towering stained-glass windows that didn't just show light but memories. Scenes of great battles, of legendary duels, of scholars unlocking ancient spells played out in shimmering, animated glass.

Every step deeper into the academy sent a shiver through Thorne's core, as if he was walking further into a realm where reality and magic blurred.

The student groups moved along curved walkways suspended over vast, bottomless chasms, where aether currents swirled like cosmic rivers below. At one point, they crossed an invisible bridge, solid beneath their feet, but entirely unseen, sending a thrill of unease through some of the first-years.

Rowenna, walking beside him, muttered under her breath, "They certainly know how to make an impression."

Vivienne, a few steps ahead, scoffed. "It's Aetherhold. If you're not in awe by now, you might as well leave."

Thorne tuned them out, his focus drawn upward to where floating platforms drifted in perfect synchrony, students and scholars alike stepping onto them as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

This place was alive.

The deeper they went, the stronger the aether pressed against his skin.

Then, suddenly, they stopped.

They had reached an expansive chamber, lined with dozens of tall doors, each one etched with glowing runes. A high-ranking official stood waiting, his presence crackling with barely restrained magic.

"You will be assigned temporary chambers for the night," the man announced. "Rest well. Tomorrow, your new life begins."

One by one, names were called, and students were led to their assigned rooms.

Thorne's name was called last.

He wasn't surprised.

As he stepped forward, the official barely spared him a glance before motioning toward an open doorway. Thorne passed through, his eyes catching the momentary flicker of a sigil array embedded into the threshold, a ward, likely designed to track movement or restrict certain spells. Subtle, but present.

His assigned quarters were small compared to the grandiosity of the academy, but still leagues beyond what he expected.

A single high-arched window overlooked the floating terraces of Aetherhold, where distant figures glided across bridges made of light. The furniture, a sturdy desk, a tall bookshelf, and a large four-poster bed, was carved from enchanted wood, gleaming faintly as though it had been shaped from living trees. A wardrobe stood in the corner, already stocked with necessities for the night.

Letting out a slow breath, he finally sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his shoulders as tension seeped from his frame. He had spent the entire day being observed, tested, and probed. His body remembered the countless skills and spells hurled at him after the ritual. His pendant had blocked them all, but the sheer number of attempts still unsettled him.

He exhaled through his nose, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees.

A small note on the desk drew his attention and he swiped it, without standing up, too tired to move.

Your enrollment has been registered within the Nexus of Aetherhold.

Your access to restricted knowledge will increase with progression.

Failure to uphold academy regulations may result in expulsion or reprimand.

That last part caught his attention.

Expulsion.

There were very few things in life Thorne feared. But being forced out of Aetherhold before he found the answers he sought… That was a problem.

His mind flickered to the spellbinding ritual, to the black void his core had become, and to the way the archmages had leaned forward in interest when they failed to scan him.

No, he wouldn't give them a reason to throw him out.

He had made it.

Aetherhold.

After years of blood, deception, and survival, he was finally here.

The reality of it settled in like a stone in his gut. He was standing at the threshold of answers, answers about his sister, Bea, and the fate of the Elder Races. If there were records of them anywhere, it would be here, buried within the Academy's ancient halls.

Come morning, he would begin the search.

He would scour the library, pry information from reluctant scholars, watch for any whisper of knowledge about where they were taken, how they were held, and most importantly, if they were still alive.

But before he could strategize further, a knock at his door.

Thorne stilled.

His instincts, sharpened by years under Uncle's thumb, screamed trap.

Slowly, he rose, pressing his palm against the cool metal handle before twisting it open.

A woman stood before him, clad in the sky-blue uniform of an Aetherhold official. Her posture was rigid, her expression unreadable, but her eyes raked over him, lingering on his ragged clothing, his shoeless feet, the hollowness in his face.

"Thorne Silverbane." Her voice was calm, clipped. "You are being summoned."

A cold weight settled in his stomach.

Summoned.

For an instant, he was back in Alvar, standing in front of Uncle's desk, awaiting orders he could never refuse.

His body coiled in readiness, to run, to fight.

But no.

This was Aetherhold.

And Uncle was dead.

Thorne forced his shoulders to relax, though he could do nothing about the tension winding through his muscles.

Before he could respond, the woman stepped aside and motioned him forward.

The door swung open wider.

A command, not a request.

Every fiber of his being screamed not to move, to reach for a dagger that was no longer there, to slip into the Veil and disappear.

Instead, he stepped forward.

Head held high.

Shoulders squared.

Not an ounce of hesitation visible on his face, thanks to Mask of Deceit.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the woman turned and set off down the hall.

Her pace was brisk, purposeful.

Thorne followed, silent, his ears straining for any whisper of an explanation.

He could feel eyes on him, other first-years peeking from their rooms, murmuring among themselves. But as soon as they saw the official's cold expression, they withdrew.

Curiosity was one thing. Defying Aetherhold authority was another.

They descended into a vast marble hall lined with towering bronze statues, each depicting a mage or a warrior mid action, wands or swords raised, robes flowing, expressions frozen in power.

Their footsteps echoed.

At last, Thorne mustered the courage to speak.

"Where are we going?"

The woman didn't answer.

Her silence was deliberate.

Thorne's eyes narrowed.

Guards walked the corridors, not scholars or robed officials, but soldiers clad in armor, hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

They didn't seem to belong in Aetherhold. As he walked, he noticed more guards, some humans, some elves and the occasional darkling. Crests of noble houses on armor and colors banners signified different kingdoms.

But why were they stationed here, along this route?

And then, his pulse quickened.

Other first-years were being escorted too.

Among them, a girl he vaguely recognized, the one who had displayed time affinity during the ritual.

Thorne's mind whirled.

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This wasn't punishment.

This wasn't an expulsion.

So what the hell was it?

Frustration curled in his gut. His glowing eyes flickered with irritation as he turned to the woman again.

"Will you tell me where we are going?"

That, finally, earned him a glance.

She regarded him coolly, her gaze catching on his eyes.

He watched as curiosity crept into her expression.

"Interesting."

Thorne frowned.

"What?"

"Your eyes." She tilted her head slightly. "They seem to react to emotion."

His shoulders stiffened.

"A common trait, I'm sure." His tone was even.

The woman smirked, not fooled in the slightest.

"What trait is it?" she pressed. "Is it by birth, or did you acquire it through a feat?"

Thorne didn't answer.

And he didn't need to.

A sudden movement ahead drew their attention.

A grand door loomed before them, flanked by two massive bronze statues, swords crossed over its entrance.

The official lifted her hand to knock.

The statues moved.

With a great, grinding sound, they unsheathed their swords, lowering them in warning, barring the way.

The woman sighed, lowering her hand.

"His Highness is occupied. We'll wait."

A beat of silence.

Then, Thorne's world froze.

His chest felt hollow.

His breath turned sharp.

"Highness?" His own voice sounded distant.

The official cast him a sideways glance.

"King Aranth of Caledris." She said it as though it were obvious.

Then, an absent nod. "Congratulations."

Her voice was almost amused.

"It is no small feat to gain the attention of royalty, even if they are of your own kingdom."

Thorne barely heard her.

The world had narrowed to a single name.

A single suffocating memory.

Aranth.

The man who sent his knights to butcher his family.

The man who ordered his parents' deaths so he could claim their cores.

The man who...

A familiar, uncontrollable sensation surged.

Aether crackled through him.

His eyes burned brighter, glowing like twin beacons, a raw, furious light reflecting in the polished metal of the statues.

The woman frowned.

Her features were bathed in the eerie blue radiance of his gaze.

"Hmph." She studied him curiously. "I suppose that answers my question."

Thorne forced himself to breathe.

Forced the trembling rage down, down, down into the abyss.

He shut his eyes.

A long, slow exhale.

When he opened them again, his expression was smooth.

The glow dimmed.

The official watched him, unimpressed.

"You really should learn to control that."

Thorne said nothing.

Before the silence could stretch, a mechanical shift echoed through the hall.

The statues sheathed their blades, and the great doors swung open.

A young woman strode out.

Rowenna.

Her face was thunderous, her eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

She took one step.

Saw him.

And froze.

For a moment, Thorne thought she would say something.

Ask something.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked past him.

Like he wasn't even there.

Thorne watched her go, his pulse still hammering.

Something was wrong.

But before he could begin to understand what...

"Enter."

The voice from within the chamber beckoned.

And Thorne Silverbane stepped forward to face his past.

Thorne stepped into the chamber with measured steps, his spine taut with controlled tension.

The room was vast yet intimate, ornate but not ostentatious. Soft golden light bathed the walls from enchanted sconces, their flickering glow casting long shadows over intricately woven banners bearing the crest of Caledris. A large, elegantly carved table stood at the center, surrounded by men and women in noble garb, officials, advisors, and attendants draped in the silks of royal service.

And there, seated at the head of it all, was King Aranth of Caledris.

Thorne had imagined this moment for years.

The man who had sent his knights to butcher his family sat before him, alive, breathing, smiling.

And Thorne, trained killer, seasoned liar, felt his hands shake.

He curled them into fists before anyone could notice.

Mask of Deceit took hold, blanketing his face in carefully crafted indifference.

Yet behind the veil, the truth coiled inside him like a blade held at the throat of his reason.

You should be dead.

You should be burning.

You should be bleeding out on this very floor.

But instead, the king smiled.

He looked nothing like a monster.

He looked like a man who laughed often and lived well.

His smile was broad, his posture easy, his sharp grey eyes crinkling at the edges with the marks of frequent amusement. He wasn't draped in layers of gold or extravagant silks, but wore a comfortable doublet of deep blue, simple but regal, with the faintest embroidery of the royal crest along the hem.

The golden crown that sat upon his auburn hair, just beginning to silver at the temples, was tilted slightly, almost as if he'd forgotten it was there.

"You're nervous."

Thorne blinked, pulled from his thoughts as King Aranth grinned at him like they were old friends sharing an inside joke.

"No need to be, lad," the king said, swirling his goblet of wine before taking a sip. "I only eat messengers, not prospective students."

A few of the officials chuckled quietly.

Thorne did not.

He forced his body to relax, letting Mask of Deceit smooth the tension in his frame.

"Your Majesty," he said carefully, inclining his head.

Skill Level Up: Acting!

The king exhaled a long, satisfied breath and leaned back, draping one arm lazily over the armrest. "Ah, I do love a boy with manners. So rare these days."

He eyed Thorne for a moment before his lips twitched.

"And just so we're clear, you do know who I am, don't you?"

Thorne arched a brow.

"A rather popular bard, I presume?"

Silence.

Then...

King Aranth burst into laughter.

"Ha! Oh, I like you already." The king slapped the armrest of his chair, shoulders shaking as he chuckled. "Cheeky. And brave. You remind me of myself at your age."

Thorne doubted that.

But he smiled anyway.

"Shall we get to the point, Your Majesty?" One of his aids interjected smoothly.

Aranth wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. "Ah, yes. Straight to business." He nodded approvingly. "Come sit."

The king leaned forward, his jovial expression unwavering, but his eyes sharp, measuring.

"You're a remarkable talent, Thorne Silverbane." He swirled his wine again before gesturing at him. "Your performance during the spellbinding ceremony was... let's say, a rather unique experience."

Thorne stilled, forcing his expression to remain neutral, as if it meant nothing to him.

Inside, his heart pounded like war drums.

They're watching me. They all saw what I did.

Aranth took another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of his goblet.

"I must say, in all my years, I have never seen anything quite like it," the king continued. "Naturally, I had to ask around, do a bit of digging." He exhaled through his nose. "And you know what I found?"

Thorne tilted his head, keeping his voice even. "Enlighten me."

The king grinned.

"It turns out, what happened to you has only ever occurred a handful of times in Aetherhold's history."

Thorne said nothing, waiting.

Aranth leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of his chair. "Your little incident with the orb, it happens when the one being tested possesses too many affinities for the orb to properly display."

Thorne's heart pounded once in his chest, but his face remained impassive.

"Rare, isn't it?" The king took another sip of his drink. "Those few who experienced it went on to become some of the most powerful mages in history."

Thorne swallowed his apprehension.

"I imagine it must be quite the burden," he said smoothly. "So many expectations."

Aranth let out an amused hum. "And yet, look at you. Cool as a northern wind. Tell me, lad, are you always this calm under pressure?"

Thorne tilted his head, Sculpted Persona settling over him like a second skin.

He smiled faintly. It was not his first time going against powerful, dangerous men.

"I try."

The king exhaled another laugh before setting his goblet aside. "Well, I admire that. And I'd like to extend an offer to you."

Here it comes.

"A sponsorship."

Thorne tilted his head slightly. "Your Majesty?"

The king laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the armrest. "Caledris values its mages," he said smoothly. "I value them. Aetherhold produces some of the most formidable magic users in the world, and yet, we are not the only ones who know this." He tapped the armrest. "Kingdoms send their brightest to train here, to cultivate talent, to claim talent. And you, my boy?" His gaze sharpened. "You are talent."

Thorne kept his breathing even.

The king lifted his hand, gesturing to the opulence around them.

"I could give you power. Wealth. The best instructors. The freedom to train however you want."

Aranth's smile widened. "You could even have your own estate, your own title. The world would bow before you in a few short years. You'd have your pick of political alliances, your future paved in gold."

Thorne kept his expression impassive.

But inside, inside, his stomach coiled.

You think I want to serve you?

You think I'll let you own me.

You think I'll kneel to the man who had my family murdered?

A slow exhale. His fingers, resting on the arms of the chair, curled slightly.

He could play the game.

Could use this.

He forced himself to consider the opportunity.

Aranth of Caledris was the most powerful man in the kingdom.

If there was anyone who had answers about Bea, about the Elder Races, it was him.

If Aetherhold failed him, if no records could be found, then he would pry the truth from the very man who had set everything into motion.

Thorne exhaled softly and tilted his head. Echoes of Truth activating as he crafted his next words.

"I appreciate the offer, Your Majesty," he said smoothly. "It's an honor. Truly."

Aranth studied him.

"But?"

Thorne let the silence stretch, a move he knew would only make him seem more valuable.

Aranth's gaze sharpened, just slightly.

Thorne saw the calculation flicker through the man's face.

Then, Tactful Deflection activated.

"I need time to consider."

A slow grin bloomed on the king's face.

"Oh, I really like you," he mused, shaking his head. "Smart lad. Cautious."

The room relaxed. The advisers glanced at one another, conversations resuming.

But Aranth wasn't finished.

He tapped his fingers against the armrest, watching Thorne with a speculative look.

"Silverbane," he mused aloud. "Odd. I don't recognize the name."

Thorne stilled.

Then, the king's expression shifted, something clicking into place.

His sharp gaze flicked to Thorne's posture, the way he held himself.

"You're of noble descent?"

Thorne hesitated.

For years, he had played the role of a noble. He had danced in their circles, spoken their language, mimicked their mannerisms.

But lying to this man about it was dangerous.

"No," he said finally.

Aranth's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I don't believe you."

Thorne forced himself to remain still.

The king gestured vaguely. "Your speech, your body language, everything about you screams noble blood."

Thorne shrugged lightly, weaving truth with lie.

"My family was affluent," he admitted. "I was raised around nobility. Socialized with them most of my life."

The king hummed, his sharp grey eyes studying him.

Then, he caught onto something.

"Was?" he repeated.

A beat of silence.

Then...

"Dead."

Thorne uttered the word flatly, shutting down any further conversation.

Aranth studied him for a moment longer.

Then, to Thorne's relief, he did not press.

Instead, he nodded.

"I see," he said simply.

The silence between them lingered a second too long.

Then the king smirked.

"Well, lad. Consider my offer. But know this..." He leaned back with an easy stretch.

"It will not stand forever."

Thorne inclined his head.

And with that, the conversation was over.

The king took another sip of his wine, as if this had all been nothing more than a friendly chat.

Thorne, without looking at anyone else in the room, rose to his feet.

The moment he left the chamber, the breath he had been holding finally escaped.

Skill Level Up: Mask of Deceit!

His fingers still twitched with the barely restrained urge to draw blood.

That man murdered my family.

And yet, Thorne had smiled, had laughed, had played the game.

Aetherhold was a den of lions.

And so far, he had not been eaten.

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